


Sweet Ashes

by Eryn



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: BDSM, Established Relationship, Humiliation, M/M, Roleplay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-13
Updated: 2013-01-13
Packaged: 2017-11-25 09:03:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,244
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/637270
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eryn/pseuds/Eryn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>It’s a game they play at times. When the mood strikes and they’re both willing to go for it.</i>
</p><p> </p><p>  <i>Catch me and I’m yours.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Sweet Ashes

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [release](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/15613) by double-negative-means-yes. 



> This was inspired by a brilliant picture at [tumblr](http://doublenegativemeansyes.tumblr.com/post/40318360673/release) by doublenegativemeansyes.
> 
> Thanks a lot to kryptaria, who betad this righter after waking up and helped me name this beast ♥

It’s a game they play at times. When the mood strikes and they’re both willing to go for it.

Catch me and I’m yours.

Sherlock never goes for it immediately of course. He waits and plots and watches John tense up more and more with every hour, every day that passes. It takes him, on average, four days to plot the perfect way to capture John. It’s always a game of wills as much as a game of force because in the time before the catch they don’t have sex. They wait and hold each other in suspense until the hunter strikes.

It isn’t always Sherlock that does the hunting, but it is most days. They both prefer it that way and only switch on rare occasions. This time is not one of them. Sherlock is simply bored enough by easy cases, and John is working regular shifts at the surgery. He spends every day there for a few hours, treating colds and sprained ankles, and then he comes back home. Over the week he gets progressively more paranoid until he checks over his shoulder every five minutes.

They started five days ago, and there’s still no sign that Sherlock’s even planning anything. He’s his usual infuriating self, and the experiments are starting to spread into the bathroom, much to John’s dismay. Violin play is still not limited to daytime, and more often than not, when John returns, Sherlock is whining about one boring case or another.

In hindsight looking over his shoulder so much was a stupid idea because he didn’t see what was in front of him. He’s just around the corner from 221 B when he feels something wrap around his throat that feels like a thick cord. His hands come up reflexively, and he holds his breath when he’s jerked by the noose into a side alley. He can’t see his assailant because the person has slipped behind him, but John doesn’t much think about who it is either. He just tries to drive his elbow back into the person’s stomach while the noose pulls close around his throat. It doesn’t cut off his breathing completely, but it is tight enough that he can see spots appear in his vision. He can’t even properly growl or scream because he just doesn’t have the air for it. Instead he fights, but his opponent has the advantage, and with his vision blurring he can’t put up opposition for long. He does get in a few good hits, but they don’t make a difference in the end when he loses consciousness and slumps forward. As he drifts off he’s almost grateful for the man behind him who keeps him for breaking his nose on the dirty ground of the side alley.

++++++++++

John comes to an indeterminable amount of time later to the stench of cigarette smoke and the feeling of cold. His hands are cold, his arms are cold and his chest are cold and John realises that’s because he’s naked from the waist up. He’s also barefoot and blindfolded, and more of the cord is wrapped around his thighs, ankles, arms and wrists. There’s also the noose casually resting around his neck, like one of those choke collars with the “leash” hanging down his back. His arms are pulled awkwardly back by the rope around his upper arms, and he’s seated on a cheap plastic chair that wouldn’t even be comfortable if he got to slouch in it. The rope around his thighs goes under the seat of the chair and forces his legs open which, mixed with the rope pulling his arms back, puts him on display too much for his liking, but there isn’t anything he can do about it.

John feels heat approaching his stomach and he stops all motion because the smell of cigarettes is strong now, which means there’s likely the glowing tip of one hovering over his skin. He can’t help but tense the muscles and try to pull it back out of reach. He’s rewarded with a chuckle and a pat to the thigh, so unexpected he exhales in a whoosh, and tension leaves him before he can think twice about it. Luckily whoever has captured him has quick reflexes, or he just wasn’t as close as John had thought. He doesn’t get burnt and the heat moves away.

“So I see you’re awake,” a familiar dark voice says, and John shivers — because as usual Sherlock has caught him and is going to enjoy himself. John licks his lips and tries to sit up a bit more, head raised to where the voice is coming from.

“Yeah. What do you intend to do to me now?” he asks, a mix of worry and challenge in his voice. He wants to know what Sherlock planned, yes, but he isn’t sure he’s going to like it. Then again, he is already enjoying himself quite a bit. The thrill, the rope, the collar that might just turn into a choker again. It all works together to bring him into a heightened state of awareness. It also has arousal burning in his stomach; part simple enjoyment of the situation and part conditioned response after months of playing this game with Sherlock.

“I haven’t exactly decided yet,” Sherlock says, which John doesn’t believe at all. Sherlock never acts before he has a detailed plan of how he’ll take John apart.

“Interested in some suggestions?” John asks. No matter that they won’t make a difference he feels like he has to try, has to play his part in their little game of captive and captor. And as expected Sherlock just laughs at him, a dark chuckle that sends shivers down his spine.

“No. I don’t usually take suggestions from my toys,” Sherlock says and John can hear him opening his lighter. The idea of fire makes his skin tingle in anticipation and appreciation. It’s on the list of okay things for this scenario. Just like wax and ice and all those other lovely dirty tricks one can pull. “Though I admit begging goes a long way with me if you feel so inclined.”

John wants to snap at him in response because he’s sure Sherlock will only listen if he begs for more of whatever it is, and even though he doesn’t mind being Sherlock’s plaything he isn’t yet ready to give everything up. The position he’s in is already vulnerable enough, and the idea of voluntarily humiliating himself sends hot stabs of shame through him. He’s just grateful his pants are still closed or Sherlock might have seen his cock twitch at the idea. He swallows hard but doesn’t say anything. He can hear Sherlock chuckle again, and something hot lands on his stomach in the wake of the smell of cigarettes.

It cools immediately but John still feels like he’s burning. Sherlock just tapped the ash from his cigarette onto John’s stomach. His face definitely is burning, and John has to bite his lip to keep from whimpering. He could beg now, he knows that. He could plead with Sherlock not to do it again, but he knows from experience that it’s futile. So he sits there and wishes he could close his legs or maybe just brush the ash away. But instead he gets more embers landing on his chest. He can feel the heat of the cigarette in front of his face because Sherlock would never risk giving him an actual burn-mark. It’s disgusting, and John considers trying to blow it out or away, send the ash floating to the ground instead of his pecs. But that’d anger Sherlock, and an angry Sherlock is even more devious than a playful one, so John sits still and bites his lip and waits.

When the heat vanishes he tries to get free, or rather, he struggles a bit. He knows it’ll make a pretty picture and he hopes it is enticing enough that Sherlock will be willing to skip ahead a few steps. Everything will be better than being used as a human ashtray. Unfortunately all he manages is chafe himself on the rough cord in record time. He also gets another laugh from Sherlock, this one low and condescending.

“I wouldn’t do that, John. It would be a shame if you rub your wrists bloody before I got to them,” he chastises, and John actually whines at that. They both know his wrists are sensitive, and just a drop of wax is often enough to have him begging for Sherlock to not do it again. It’s a dirty, underhanded move, but that’s what this game is all about: Sherlock pushing and taunting until John loses himself and loves him for it.

So he stops moving again and instead breathes hard through his nose to keep his calm. He can feel sweat forming at his temples already, the mix of anticipation shame and arousal making his blood boil. He gets some ash on his shoulders as a reward, and he hopes dearly that the next one won’t land on his face. He knows Sherlock won’t hesitate to tangle his fingers in John’s hair and tip his head back. They’ve played that game before, and as long as his eyes are protected John is okay with it. Or rather, he won’t end this game because of it. The feeling of ash on his lips is undesirable and dirty, and it makes John’s stomach tighten with involuntary arousal.

There’s the sound of gravel when Sherlock grinds out the butt, and then the next one is lit. John knows they can be at this for a while. As long as Sherlock thinks he needs. As many cigarettes as it takes to take John from his self-confident self to the person he becomes for Sherlock, the part of him that only gets out once Sherlock breaks down the walls around it. It’s a difficult process but the reward is well worth it, so John lets him. He fights, yes, but he doesn’t run away. He sits back and bites his lip until it starts bleeding, and then he sucks the blood down so it won’t run down his chin.

Right now Sherlock is not even touching him, just rains a new shower of ash down onto his chest every once in a while, but it still has John’s cock straining against the front of his pants. He knows it’s more than obvious by now, how aroused he is from Sherlock’s treatment. It’s like a feedback loop now, a vicious circle, because every bit of ash, every new degradation, arouses him more, and the more noticeable his arousal is, the more humiliated he feels. Not because Sherlock says anything, but because John knows there’s no way for him to pretend he isn’t getting off on this.

In front of him he can hear cloth rustling, and the smell of cigarette is intensifying again. John can feel his breath speeding up because whatever Sherlock plans now will be one step up from what he’s doing right now, the next move in his elaborate plot to undo John. A finger taps his cheek, but John doesn’t open. He can feel the heat of the cigarette in Sherlock’s other hand, and John isn’t sure he’s ready for that yet, will ever be ready for that.

“Open,” Sherlock orders and taps his cheek again, more forceful this time, but John only turns his head to the side. Above him Sherlock growls and grips his chin forcefully to turn it forward again.

“I said open,” he orders once more. Fear and anticipation war inside of John, and he bites the inside of his cheek to keep from pleading for Sherlock to not do this. There’s no third prompt, and John groans and tries to pull back when he feels Sherlock’s fingers pressing into his cheeks firmly. His palm is resting under John’s chin, holding him in place while his fingers force John’s mouth to open as far as it’ll go. He holds his breath and squeezes his eyes shut behind the blindfold. The cigarette is still dangerously close to his face. He can feel the heat of it on the tip of his nose, and he wonders if it’ll be better to spit or swallow.

The metallic sound of a belt buckle is like music to John and if he could he’d have thanked Sherlock, would have praised him and cried in relief. But the fingers are still digging unforgiving into his cheeks, even when John stops trying to close his mouth. He has had his chance, and he didn’t use it, so now he’ll have no leverage at all. John doesn’t mind much. This is familiar, something they do even when they aren’t playing like this. It’s something he enjoys doing, though he prefers to go at his own place. But this, this isn’t about his pace.

He swallows a moan when Sherlock’s cock is guided into his mouth. The other is still holding the cigarette, and the heat of it makes his skin tingle, but he can’t even protest like this. He can just sit here and use his tongue to coax Sherlock’s dick to hardness. It still has a bit to go and the fact that doing this, trussing John up and humiliating him, didn’t even get Sherlock hard is just the right kind of embarrassment. It makes his face heat, and from above he can hear Sherlock inhale. His hips are moving back and forth lazily, as if an afterthought.

John wonders how many cigarettes they’ll go through before Sherlock fucks his mouth in earnest, and the idea of competing with a cancer stick for Sherlock’s attention makes his skin feel two sizes too small. The cold barely registers now because he feels like he’s on fire. He swallows and licks as best as he can, but already there’s spit running down his chin, dripping onto his chest and likely smearing the ash still clinging to his skin. John doesn’t want to see what he looks like right now, and he’s grateful for the blindfold because he can’t even see what Sherlock looks like. He knows it’s necessary because no matter how solemn Sherlock looks at him there’s also always affection, and there’s no room for that right now. Not when John is gasping around Sherlock’s dick because the other is going at his own pace and doesn’t seem to care much for John’s gag reflex or breathing. He also isn’t even moaning. Just smoking audibly somewhere above him with his dick buried in John’s mouth.

Shamefully John has to admit to himself he’d love to be able to jerk himself off now, use Sherlock’s distraction to do away with his erection, ease the pressure in his pants and make it less noticeable just how much he enjoys this. But of course Sherlock won’t have this, and the ropes give him no room to do anything but stay in position and let Sherlock use him.

At least Sherlock’s fingers are no longer digging in harshly. Instead they stroke his cheeks in praise or scratch him. There’s no reason to do either but John doesn’t fight it. If Sherlock wants to leave red lines on his cheeks, John will take them, and if he wants to pet him, then John will take that. He knows he’s losing himself to the monotony of it, of being nothing more than Sherlock’s toy, a warm wet place to stick his cock. It’s easier in a way, especially compared to being a living ashtray. Because he has a purpose like this. It’s only sucking Sherlock’s cock, but that’s okay. He can do that.

Sherlock’s hand is holding him in place again. His fingers have tangled in the short hair at the back of his head, but John makes no move to pull away. He just wraps his lips tightly around Sherlock’s dick and sucks the way he couldn’t before with the threat of nails imminent. His mouth is filled with the taste of Sherlock, and he swallows it down, straining a bit in the hold to get closer, to feel Sherlock slide into the back his throat. They both know he can take it, but apparently Sherlock isn’t interested in that. He even seems to be annoyed by John’s eagerness and pulls his cock out. John can’t help but whine. He feels unmoored now, with his purpose removed, and struggles to get closer. But Sherlock won’t have it.

When the backhand hits his face he’s grateful that Sherlock seems to have flicked away the cigarette beforehand. He gets a second slap to go with the first, and John stops moving. He just pants and feels blood drip down his chin because his lip broke open again.

“Bad boy,” Sherlock chides. “You don’t get to decide what I do with you. How I use you”

John blushes and hangs his head in Sherlock’s hold. It only gets him a rough pull as his head is turned up again. If he wasn’t blindfolded he’d be looking straight at Sherlock now, and John blushes and licks his lips nervously.

“I’m sorry,” John rasps, but Sherlock tsks at him.

“I don’t really care. Open again,” he orders and this time John complies immediately. He doesn’t know what’ll come now, but he doesn’t care any longer. He doesn’t even care how he looks right now, even though Sherlock gives him time to contemplate it. He can picture it easily, how his chest and neck are bared and pressed forward, slick with spit and blood and with black streaks of ash on it. His face is a mix of sweat and spit, and his mouth is opened invitingly. But it doesn’t seem like Sherlock will take him up on that invitation. Instead John can feel fingers trail through the slick on his chest, and then there’s the distinct sound of jerking off right in front of him. John’s face is ablaze with embarrassment as he realises just what Sherlock intends to do. The blush spreads down his arms and shoulders, and his cock twitches in appreciation.

It doesn’t take long for Sherlock to come, striping John’s face and chest with his release before he steps back to do up his pants again. John is blushing, but he still swallows what landed in his mouth and does his best to lick up what’s in reach. Sherlock just watches him and laughs lowly. Suddenly there’s pressure on his cock, and John moans and bucks forward, but as soon as it appeared the pressure is gone.

“Want to get off, John?” Sherlock asked, and John nods fervently. He’d almost forgotten how hard he was, but this short contact had brought it all back. His pants are uncomfortably tight and also wet from where he’s been leaking for a while.

“Yes, please,” he begs immediately, and he isn’t exactly surprised to hear Sherlock laugh.

“And why, pray tell, should I let my toy get off? It’s much more fun to watch it squirm,” Sherlock teases him, and John whines lowly. There’s no reason. They both know it. If he is really just Sherlock’s toy then it doesn’t matter if he gets off. But John desperately wants to get off, and he isn’t above begging now.

“Because… because… I don’t know. Just please let me get off. I’ll squirm as much as you want for it. I’ll… I’ll do whatever you want. No matter what it is. Just please let me get off. Please I need to cum so much right now,” he pleads and hopes the idea of seeing him do something instead of just receiving will be a good enough reason for Sherlock to allow him to get off. He can hear a contemplative sigh in front of him and he puts in a few more ‘please’ and ‘I’ll squirm really nice for you’ and ‘I need to come’ until Sherlock pushes two fingers into his mouth to quiet him. John blushes but sucks on the obediently. He has no idea how Sherlock will get him off, if he does it, so John makes sure Sherlock’s fingers are nice and slick.

“All right,” Sherlock says after a while and pulls his fingers back out. “You get one hand and five minutes to get yourself off,” Sherlock tells him, and John thinks he could get off in five seconds if Sherlock would just let him. He waits with bated breath as Sherlock reaches down to undo his belt and pull it out of the loops. It’s completely unnecessary, and John knows something is still coming. But right now he doesn’t care because Sherlock’s hands are on his flies, opening the zipper and pulling trousers and pants down his hips. John raises his arse as best as he can so Sherlock can work the pants down half his arse as well.

For a moment he just sits there with his dick out and Sherlock holding onto his belt, but before John starts begging again there’s the sound of Sherlock’s switchblade. John swallows hard and stays motionless as Sherlock cuts free first his left hand and then the upper arm. For a moment he doesn’t know what to do, but then Sherlock steps back, and John reaches down to wrap his hand around his cock, and gods he’s needed that. He moans and curls forward because he can finally move his arms enough for it. He also shifts his hips into a more comfortable position and just goes for it. It’s dry and a bit awkward but he doesn’t have the time to stop. He has five minutes starting from whatever arbitrary time Sherlock decided, and he will have to get off in that time or not get off at all tonight. He knows he’s moaning loudly but Sherlock doesn’t seem to mind. John is sure he’s being watched, and he makes sure to squirm a bit. He promised squirming, and if that’s all he has to do to get off then he won’t complain.

But just when he feels like he’ll come there’s a harsh snap on his thigh, followed by a second and a third, moving up the inside of his right leg until the last almost hits his crotch. John sobs because he now knows just what Sherlock planned with the belt. He moves his hand faster and tries to catch that moment again, but before he can reach it the belt lands on his thigh again, pulling him back. He’s sure his five minutes are almost up, and then Sherlock will make him stop and tie him up again and maybe hit him some more. Maybe he’ll even take the broad belt to his cock, and John feels like crying at the unfairness of it. He’s approaching orgasm again, and just when he feels like he’s falling over Sherlock pulls him back again.

They play this game for another few rounds, and John’s cock feels raw because he still has no lube. He’s sure the five minutes are long since over, but Sherlock seems to enjoy himself, seems to enjoy frustrating John to the point where he’s crying into the blindfold and there’s sweat all over him. John knows he’s babbling again, pleading and begging for Sherlock to just end this, decide and either let him come or make him stop because if he’s held in suspense like this any longer he feels like he’ll black out again.

Sherlock stays silent, and John just hopes that’s a good thing because he knows his breath is coming in short gasps and there are dots in front of his eyes. The orgasm is always just out of reach, and his blood is rushing in his ears. There’s nothing outside of the moment. Nothing past the pleasure and the pain and Sherlock in front of him, playing with him because that’s what he wants to do. But maybe he’s grown tired of playing or maybe John has squirmed prettily enough but whatever the reason is there’s no more pain, and John sobs as he’s finally allowed to come. He sees stars and shouts his pleasure, his whole body trembling and spasming in the wake of a spectacular orgasm. John can feel the sperm landing on his chest, mingling with Sherlock’s, and he is far past caring. He doesn’t even blush. He just relaxes his hand and smiles, pulling in long gulps of air through his mouth.

He is completely lax, his mind floating somewhere above the body still tied to a cheap plastic chair in the living room of 221C. John feels Sherlock release his right wrist, and his body just slumps forward on its own, hands resting on the floor in front of him. He knows he’s a mess, and Sherlock is likely still as composed as when he abducted John. But that’s okay. That’s how it should be. He smiles weakly when Sherlock frees his legs as well, and then he stumbles because Sherlock has pulled him to his feet. But John doesn’t care. He will stay floating while Sherlock pulls off the blindfold and leads him to the bathroom for cleanup. He knows he can stay like this as long as he wants. Sherlock takes good care of his toys, and he’ll make sure that John gets back upstairs and drinks some tea and maybe after that he can curl up at Sherlock’s feet and take a nap.


End file.
